Thursday February 24, 2005
Graham spent the day fitting a couple of new shelves in the made-over kitchen, hanging curtains, moving stuff around, and working out what kind and amount of decoration should be on display for the purposes of presentation for sale. The entrance to the house opens into the kitchen, so it’s critically important to get the first impression right. We’ve discussed it, and the discussion ain’t over yet, Graham arguing for plain and simple, me seeking to push the rather more decorative modern cottage line. Another couple of days and we’ll be there. It’s a large kitchen but strangely difficult to photograph except in bits. A wide angle lens would do it but the one on the Nikon film camera is a fuzzy, ill-mannered thing so I reckon I’ll have to get the tripod out and do a cut-and-join job in Photoshop.
|New shelves, new wallpaper, new…
Meantime I nursed my sore thumb, which is healing with remarkable rapidity but is still too tender for delicate work, and, taking camera in hand, spoke to the cat.
“How you doing, Dolly?” [click]
“Lots of people have asked how you’re doing.” [click]
“Yeah, I think so, too. But you seem to be doing fine?” [click]
“Ah. Right. [click] I get the message. [click] Breakfast?” [click]
So I edged Graham aside, fixed Dolly her breakfast, and we stood back quietly to let her enjoy it in peace.
Like me, Dolly resorted to sleep and food as grief therapy and, like me, she’s pulling out of it fine now. She’s getting her figure back fast; mine will take a little longer. We all of us miss Harry Cat still, terribly, but the hurt is fading, leaving all those years of mirth and good memories to shine on into the future.
Now she’s the number one Top Cat, Dolly has had some adjustment to make, and so have we. She is rapidly becoming far more of a people cat, seeking play and cuddles, along with the serving of reliable breakfasts. She’s always tended to join me for my afternoon nap but now it’s becoming an immoveable part of our routine and I get a sound telling off if I delay things too much. The sound of teeth being brushed is her cue and she stands impatiently at the bedroom door until I finish up and walk through. The instant I’m settled, she flurrumphs herself down, wedged against my back—very comforting that is, too—and we sleep for an hour or so, snug as snug can be. When I wake I turn over carefully to give her a prod.
“Come on, Dolly. Time to be up and at ’em again.”
I’ll not translate her response here, not the initial one, anyway. It’s not polite. Soon as she comes to, though, she rolls over onto her back, presenting her tummy for a good rummagy tickle.
We’re doing fine.
|So, where’s breakfast, then?